GtJtisttne  JJertc 


FRED    LOCKLEY 

RARE  WESTERN  BOOKS 

4227  S.  E.  Stark  St. 
PORTLAND  15,      ORE. 


UCSB  LIBRARY 


7 

I 


PROSE  SKETCHES  AND  VERSE 


CHRISTINE  LEETE  COLLINS 


Collection 


THE  BLAIR-MURDOCK  COMPANY 
SAN   FRANCISCO 

1913 


THIS  PUBLICATION,  OF  A  FEW  VERSES  AND  PROSE  SKETCHES 
OF  MRS.  COLLINS,  IS  OFFERED  TO  HER  FRIENDS  WITH  A  FEELING 
THAT  THEY  WILL  VALUE  IT  AS  A  MEMORIAL  OF  HER  WHO  WAS 
ALWAYS  READY  TO  DO  ALL  IN  HER  POWER  FOR  THEIR  HAPPINESS. 


DEDICATED    TO 

LAUREL  HALL   CLUB 

OF  WHICH 

CHRISTINE  LEETE  COLLINS 

WAS    A 

CHARTER    MEMBER 


1  CAN  BUT  FEEL  THAT  WHEN  THE  GRASS  GROWS  OVER 
ME,  IF  I  SHALL  HAVE  MADE  SOME  LIFE  THE  BETTER  FOR  MY 
LIVING,  MY  OWN  WERE  NOT  EMPTY  OR  USELESS  OR  LOST. 

Fnm  "An  April  Day's  Refltcthn." 


TRIBUTE  OF  LAUREL  HALL  CLUB. 


.  CHRISTINE  LEETE  COLLINS,  a  charter  member  of 
Laurel  Hall  Club,  a  past  president  and  dearly  beloved  friend, 
has  been  called  to  her  home  in  the  life  beyond,  be  it 

fc,tj8oU)fD,  That  we,  the  members  of  Laurel  Hall  Club,  thus 
formally  present  our  tribute  of  love  to  the  memory  of  her  whose 
passing  has  made  vacant  a  place  that  can  never  be  filled; 

That  to  those  associated  with  her  in  the  close  bond  of  club 
membership,  her  sterling  womanly  qualities,  and  her  loyal  and 
sympathetic  nature,  were  a  continual  blessing.  She  lived  on  the 
sunny  side,  radiating  naught  but  love; 

That  Laurel  Hall  Club  has  not  only  suffered  the  separation 
from  a  beautiful  soul,  but  the  loss  of  a  brilliant  mind  as  well, 
whose  exquisite  thoughts  on  Nature  and  on  Life,  and  whose  rare 
wit  were  ever  a  delight  and  inspiration; 

That,  as  a  memorial  of  the  beauty  and  sweetness  of  her  char- 
acter, we  erect  to  her  a  monument  of  loving  thoughts. 

&t£OltotD,  That  these  resolutions  be  spread  upon  our  records, 
and  a  copy  be  sent  to  the  family,  with  whom  we  express  our 
tenderest  sympathy  in  their  bereavement. 

I  cannot  say,  and  I  will  not  say, 

That  she  is  dead:     She  is  just  away; 
With  a  cheery  smile  and  a  wave  of  the  hand, 

She  has  wandered  into  an  unknown  land  ; 
And  left  us  thinking  how  very  fair 

It  needs  mast  be  since  she  lingers  there. 

BY  THE  COMMITTEE  OF  LAUREL  HALL  CLUB 
MRS.  W.  R.  PARNELL, 
HARRIET  H.  GRAY, 
MARY  SETCHEL  HAIGHT 


CHRISTINE  LEETE  COLLINS. 

CHRISTINE  LEETE,  A  LINEAL  DESCENDANT  OF  THE  SEVENTH 
COLONIAL  GOVERNOR  OF  CONNECTICUT,  WAS  BORN  IN  CLINTON, 
CONNECTICUT,  JULY  1,  1849.  SHE  CAME  TO  CALIFORNIA  WITH 
HER  PARENTS  IN  1856.  GRADUATING  FROM  LAUREL  HALL  SEMI- 
NARY, SHE  BECAME  A  TEACHER  IN  THE  SAN  FRANCISCO  SCHOOLS. 
IN  1877  SHE  MARRIED  THOMAS  W.  COLLINS,  AND  FOR  THIRTY-FIVE 
HAPPY  YEARS  DEVOTED  HERSELF  TO  HER  HUSBAND  AND  THEIR 
FOUR  SONS.  BY  THE  SIMPLICITY  AND  SINCERITY  OF  HER  CHAR- 
ACTER, BY  HER  KINDLY  SPIRIT,  AND  HER  RARE  GIFT  OF  EXPRESSION, 
SHE  WON  A  LARGE  CIRCLE  OF  TRUE  FRIENDS.  SHE  BREATHED 
HER  LAST,  AFTER  A  VERY  BRIEF  ILLNESS,  IN  HER  BUNGALOW  AT 
LARKSPUR,  CALIFORNIA.  ON  MAY  25,  1912. 


CONTENTS. 

IN  MEMORY  OF  A  FRIEND   -     - 9 

MEMORY'S  OFFERING 12 

ONLY 14 

THAT  SUMMER  RAY 16 

MY  BUNGALOW 18 

THE  FUTURE JO 

IN  MEMORIAM— McKINLEY 22 

BETSY  BUMBLE - 24 

AN  APRIL  DAY'S  REFLECTION 29 

THE  CONVERSION  OF  AN  UNBELIEVER 38 

OVER  THE  MOUNTAINS 39 

THE  CRITIC'S  GUILLOTINE 45 

AN  ALASKAN  OUTING  .                                                                                  .  48 


IN  MEMORY  OF  A  FRIEND. 

[In  response  to  the  toast,  "  Our  Founder,"  at  an  evening  reception 
given  by  the  Laurel  Hall  Club  to  its  President,  Mrs.  I.  Lowen- 
berg.] 

As  we  sometimes  shut  the  door  of  the  world  to 
gaze  upon  the  dear  old  face  that  has  smiled  above 
our  infancy,  so  I  ask  you  to  turn  aside  a  moment 
from  festivity  and  song,  while  one  who  knew  her 
well,  lays  in  loving  gratitude  these  simple  flowers 
upon  her  grave. 

She  was  woman's  friend,  than  which  no  higher 
tribute  could  be  paid.  With  her  no  ambition  was 
too  lofty  for  woman's  attainment,  and  yet  no  task 
so  lowly  but  that  woman's  honest  hand  gave  it 
dignity  and  charm.  With  a  keen  insight  into 
another's  latent  capabilities,  she  sought  the  culti- 
vation of  the  one  talent,  and  discouraged  the  slow 
wasting  from  disuse  of  what  might  prove  a 
woman's  higher  existence. 

Her  life  was  not  like  the  gentle  passing  of  a 
stream  through  summer  meadows.  A  great  sor- 
row darkened  her  sun  at  noon,  but  when  it  shone 
again,  it  warmed  a  nature  sweeter  grown  by  tears ; 
so  we  who  knew  her  early  loved  her  better  in  her 
later  days.  Meeting  discouragements  often,  she 
was  never  discouraged,  and  her  greatest  ambition 
was  for  the  rearing  of,  not  worldly  women,  not 
too  wise  women,  but  womanly  women,  fitted  to 
be  the  mothers  of  men.  She  lived  in  advance  of 


IN   MEMORY  OF  A  FRIEND. 

her  time,  and  what  we  then  often  thought  due 
to  some  erratic  mood,  we  find  to  have  been  but 
the  prophecy  of  the  future;  so  though  the  pages 
of  her  life  are  closed,  we,  who  did  not  then  un- 
derstand, read  the  lines  anew  and  live  out  their 
mystery. 

When  the  sun  was  just  beginning  to  tinge  the 
rim  of  green  years  with  yellow  and  she  most 
longed  for  activity  and  strength,  the  dial  ceased 
to  cast  a  shadow — so — she  sleeps. 

In  the  aftermath  of  this  association  when  we 
fold  our  hands  with  quiet  satisfaction  upon  the 
honors  which  glow  upon  its  gathered  years,  we 
may  go  wandering  back  into  its  early  spring  time. 
Then  we  shall  acknowledge  the  hand  which 
planted  the  tiny  seedlet  whose  roots  have  encom- 
passed such  a  harvest.  May  we  be  grateful 
enough  to  say,  "Honor  to  her  to  whom  honor  is 
due,"  and  drop  the  tear  of  re-awakened  memory 
and  still  keep  the  laurels  green  upon  her  grave. 

OUR   FOUNDER. 

Ah,  well  a  day!  the  roses  blow 

Upon  thy  modest  tomb, 
And  nodding  grasses,  wild  and  sweet, 

Thatch  o'er  thy  silent  home. 
The  birds,  through  the  golden  summer, 

Perch  on  the  lichened  stone, 
And  burst  their  throats  with  gladness, 

As  though  thou  wert  not  gone. 


10 


IN   MEMORY  OF  A  FRIEND. 

Sleep  on,  dear  dreamer,  thy  unbroken  sleep, 

Naught  can  disturb  thy  rest; 
The  talking  leaves,  the  wild  birds'  call, 

The  wintry  winds'  behest. 
The  vague  regret  of  passing  voice, 

The  drone  of  hovering  bee, 
Each  makes  its  plaint  above  thy  grave; — 

It  matters  naught  to  thee. 


ii 


MEMORY'S  OFFERING. 

East  stretched  the  meadows'  withered  green 
With  a  dark  blue  line  of  waves  between; 

West,  stood  the  poplars  towering  high, 
Their  ragged  tops  against  the  sky — 

And  walnut  woods,  in  crimson  dressed, 
The  touch  of  autumn's  hand  confessed. 

Prophetic  of  the  bitter  blight 

That  freezes  summer's  warmest  light, 
Came  leaden  shadows  trailing  over 

Sunless  fields  of  faded  clover. 
On  the  south  there  spread  the  lonesome  reach 

Of  white  drift  sands  blown  on  the  beach; 
While  northward,  lay  the  dusty  road 

Winding  by  many  a  loved  abode, 
Into  the  quiet  New  England  town 

On  its  sheen  of  waters  looking  down. 

With  a  peace  to  modern  days  denied, 
The  village  stood  in  its  rustic  pride; 

Its  broad,  brown  streets  concisely  lined 
By  happy  homes  of  humble  kind, 

Whose  dormer  windows  stood  far  out, 
Like  great-eyed  sentinels  faced  about. 


12 


MEMORY'S  OFFERING. 

The  gable  roofs  like  a  broken  floor 
Abruptly  sloped  to  meet  the  door, 

Over  whose  portals  softly  strayed 
The  dimpled  child  and  busy  maid; 

But  half  concealed  from  the  streets  ill-bred 
By  grape  vine  crossings,  nature-led. 

No  passion  storms  in  those  quiet  lives; 

No  bitter  fruit  from  sacrifice; 
No  lives  whose  toils  for  needful  gain 

Had  upwards  gathered  only  pain; 
But  the  helpful  song  through  all  renewed 

And  retrospection  smoothly  viewed; 
One  even  thread  of  quiet  care, 

With  skies  of  blue  spread  everywhere. 

If  temptation  came  and  overcast 

The  soul  to  make  its  strength  more  fast, 

No  yielding  to  the  tempter's  tone 
And  drifting  out  from  God  alone, 

But  prayers  to  heal  the  bruised  reed, 
Uttered  in  faith  that  He  would  heed. 


ONLY. 

Only  the  flush  of  a  sunset 

At  the  close  of  a  summer  day, 

Touching  with  dreamy  beauty 
The  hills  in  the  far  away. 

Only  a  robin  singing, 

Calling  a  sweet  love  note 
Among  the  leafy  murmurings, 

On  the  summer  winds  afloat. 

Only  a  form  in  the  shadow, 

Fresh  and  girlish  and  fair, 
With  a  sunbonnet  silently  falling 

From  the  wind-swept  waves  of  hair. 

Only  a  face  at  the  fence  bar, 

Wistful  and  sad  and  sweet, 
Looking  out  into  the  sunset 

And  over  the  fields  of  wheat. 

Only  the  lips  all  aquiver, 

Trembling  with  passionate  pain, 

Striving  to  keep  back  the  sobbing, 
Sobbing  unto  the  grain 

That  is  only  so  sleepily  nodding 
In  the  hush  of  the  dying  day, 

Keeping  low,  sweet  time  with  the  robin, 
Singing  his  roundelay. 

14 


ONLY. 

Only  the  piteous  folding 

Of  the  pleading  hands  in  prayer, 

While  the  closing  flower  cups  listen, 
In  dewy  silence  there. 

Only  the  old,  old  story, 

Of  a  nature  misunderstood, 
And  a  young  heart  learning  in  sorrow 

The  lesson  of  womanhood. 

Only  the  flush  of  a  sunset, 

Faded  and  passed  away, 
Leaving  the  lonesome  hillside 

Brown  in  the  far  away. 

Only  a  brooding  silence 

On  upland  and  field  and  river, 
Save  where  the  cries  of  the  owlet 

Through  the  long  sedge  grasses  quiver. 

Only  a  wearied  robin, 

Asleep  in  its  leafy  retreat, 
And  a  drooping  form  in  the  twilight 

Leaving  the  fields  of  wheat. 


THAT  SUMMER  RAY 

Have  you  ever  sat  when  the  winds  swung  low, 
Through  the  quivering  heat  of  the  summer's  glow, 
With  folded  hands  in  a  darkened  room 
And  silently  watched  in  the  sultry  gloom, 
A  line  of  light  where  the  specks  of  dust 
Settled  and  fell  like  a  golden  rust? 

Have  you  ever  remembered  the  old  sweet  times 
When  the  blossoms  clung  thick  to  the  scented  vines, 
When  the  snows  of  December  were  leaves  of  June, 
To  the  heart  whose  chords  were  ever  in  tune, 
As  you  watched  the  dust  through  the  shutters  chink 
In  that  golden  sun-line  sift  and  sink? 

Did  you  ever  sigh  for  the  old  content 

That  came  as  a  child,  as  a  woman  went, 

When  nature  was  full  of  sweet  surprise 

For  every  glance  of  childish  eyes ; 

When  the  meadow,  the  mountain,  the  wood  and 

the  sea, 

Was  each  the  most  beautiful  thing  that  could  be? 
Did  you  ever  sigh  for  this  old  content 
As  the  sun  through  your  chamber  his  golden  glint 

sent? 


16 


THAT  SUMMER  RAY. 

Do  you  ever  forget  when  you're  dreaming  so, 
That  the  winters  must  come  and  the  summers  go; 
That  the  tireless  hands  uplifted  to  prove 
Necessity's  strength  or  the  sweetness  of  love, 
Must  fall  over-wrought  in  a  useless  way, 
And  lie  patiently  folded  some  day,  some  day; 
As  you  watch  that  line  in  a  darkened  room 
Shimmer  and  shoot  aslant  the  gloom? 

Did  you  ever  think  that  this  line  of  light, 

That  falls  on  the  carpet  so  warm  and  bright, 

May  be  like  a  hope  that  with  shining  mark 

Illumines  a  spot  where  life  lies  dark, 

And  that  the  soul  through  the  passing  years 

Is  greater  made  by  its  burden  of  tears? 

You  must  have  thought  so  when  that  drifting  beam 

Divided  the  darkness  with  golden  gleam. 

Oh,  quivering  beam,  through  the  shutters  chink, 
Where  the  sun  motes  softly  rise  and  sink, 
How  we  dream  and  link  to  that  golden  bar, 
The  days  that  were  and  the  days  that  are; 
Till  the  twilight  softly  gathers  gloom 
Through  the  lengthening  shades  of  afternoon. 


MY  BUNGALOW. 

Midway  between  the  folded  hills 
That  stretch  to  the  sunset's  glow, 

Where  wooded  heights  meet  greenest  depths, 
Rises  my  bungalow. 

Across  the  way  the  redwoods  climb 

And  beckon  to  their  fellows, 
Above  the  chaparral's  low  reach, 

And  the  maples'  changing  yellows. 

And  near  at  hand  where  the  shadows  fall, 

Are  dim  and  dreamy  spaces, 
Where  the  gnarled  arm  of  the  bearded  oak 

With  the  madrona  interlaces. 

And  here  the  wild  bird  seeks  its  nest, 

Nor  dreams  of  lurking  danger; 
Sheltered  in  this  wilderness, 

From  the  footfall  of  the  stranger. 

Far  below  the  hamlet  sleeps, 

Along  a  ferny  canyon, 
Where  the  storm-wind  heaps  the  drifting  leaves 

In  winter's  wild  abandon. 


18 


MY  BUNGALOW. 

The  young  moon  swings  her  slender  horn, 
The  evening  wind  grows  bolder, 

And  hangs  a  drapery  of  fog 
On  Tamalpais's  shoulder. 

The  haunts  of  men  seem  far  away, 

No  sound  or  sense  I  know; 
But  silence  and  a  brooding  peace 

Over  my  bungalow. 


THE  FUTURE. 

The  Past  has  folded  back  its  mottled  pages,  and 
buried  deep  within,  lie  alike  its  triumphs  and  de- 
feats. The  Present,  with  lidless  scrutiny,  stalks 
ever  beside  us,  but  the  Future  is  the  casket  which 
holds  the  hidden  gems — the  box  of  Pandora,  which 
though  sifting  the  ills  upon  a  defenseless  world, 
still  nestles  the  rosy  Hope.  It  is  the  hope  that 
somewhere  in  the  days  to  come  we  shall  find  what 
the  Past  has  missed  and  the  Present  yields  us  not, 
that  gives  life,  ofttimes,  its  endurance. 

A  sly  elf  is  Hope.  She  flutters  her  wings,  and 
lo,  the  faint  heart  throbs  with  courage  born  again ; 
the  dim  eyes  smile  through  their  tears,  and  vanished 
power  returns  to  the  weary  hand. 

Deep  in  every  heart  there  is  planted  a  seed  that 
someway  within  itself  has  a  little  hungry  longing 
to  shoot  up  and  be  something  among  its  fellows. 
The  cold  look  askance  kills  it;  a  smile,  and  these 
little  human  tendrils  will  entwine  themselves  about 
some  lofty  thought,  and  forcing  themselves,  like 
ivy  through  a  wall,  will  finally  burst  into  bloom 
above  the  rocky  surface. 

This  little  fostering  smile  is  sympathy  which  rip- 
ples the  human  heart  with  tenderness,  and,  like  the 
drop  of  a  forest  leaf  into  a  pool  when  all  the  winds 
are  still,  spread  with  ever  and  ever  widening  cir- 
cles. Now,  Hope,  which  teaches  patience  through 

20 


THE  FUTURE. 

discouragements,  and  sympathy  which  shadows 
over  imperfections  with  loving  excuses,  and  beams 
with  open  approbation  over  our  better  endeavors, 
would  together  make  a  golden  future  for  the  clubs 
of  woman  kind.  You  may  say  it  is  a  dream,  but 
dreams  now  and  then  come  true,  and  perhaps  in 
some  far  away  time,  when  the  Present  has  become 
old  and  the  Future  we  hope  for  is  upon  us,  we  shall 
sit  again  at  feast  in  this  brilliant  hall  with  our  dear 
President  as  guest.  Beside  a  vacant  chair  some 
form  may  hover  which,  though  voiceless  and  un- 
noticed, may  breathe  a  benediction  like  falling  fra- 
grance from  a  censor  swung  by  unseen  hands  as  we 
tell  of  prejudice  laid  low — of  Hope  fostering  in 
the  summer  sun,  of  sympathy  and  charity  brooding 
our  common  life  with  outspread  wings  of  peace, 
in  fact,  of  dreams  come  true. 


21 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

[Delivered  at  the  Laurel  Hall  Club  upon  the  death  of 
William  McKinley.] 

Upon  the  tablet  of  human  destiny  God  has  in- 
scribed the  law  that  man  shall  die.  From  day  to 
day,  along  the  path  from  youth  to  age,  we  note 
the  passing  sands  in  the  hour  glass  of  time  and 
know  some  life  at  its  beginning,  its  meridian,  or  its 
ending,  has  passed  from  our  earthly  vision,  leaving 
the  long  silence  for  which  we  mourn. 

The  nation  stands  today  in  the  shadow  of  a  great 
grief,  and  we  dumbly  try  to  understand  the  Divine 
Will  which  laid  its  chieftain  low.  The  banners 
droop  above  the  martyred  dead  in  the  sable  halls 
of  state,  while  a  stricken  people  lays  its  immortelles 
upon  the  quiet  heart,  which  was  gentle  as  a 
woman's,  great  as  a  king's. 

Though  the  flaming  hand  of  anarchy  wrote 
across  the  lurid  sky  the  "mene,  mene,  tekel,  up- 
harsin"  of  the  ancients,  yet  purposeless  the  dark 
deed  stands  for  the  strength  and  wisdom  of  a  great 
leader  illumines  the  way  where  others  may  follow. 
As  we  gather  about  the  majestic  dead  we  can  but 
feel  that  "it  is  not  all  of  life  to  live,"  and  that 
somehow,  somewhere,  this  grand  soul  is  living  out 
its  destiny.  Patriot,  statesman,  martyr,  well-be- 
loved, "requiescat  in  pace!" 


22 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

The  night  falls  softly  on  the  sacred  dust,  and  far 
above,  beyond  the  malice  of  man,  serenely  the  old 
flag  floats,  emblem  of  liberty,  imperishable  as  the 
memory  of  him  who  lived  for  its  honor  and  died 
in  its  cause. 


23 


BETSY  BUMBLE. 

AN  OLD-FASHIONED  CHARACTER  SKETCH. 

It  has  been  long  since  Betsy  Bumble  surrendered 
her  physical  charms,  to  the  mosses  and  lichens  of 
old  age.  Wee  and  wizened  she  sits  in  the  wide 
chimney  corner  and  dozes  and  dreams  in  the  great 
arm  chair  among  the  primitive  surroundings  that 
have  clung  about  her  like  an  old  garment. 

Betsy  believes  in  no  new-fangled  innovation. 
The  rag  carpet  still  adorns  the  floor,  but  is  getting 
a  little  more  ragged  than  formerly;  its  mottled 
surface  reaches  the  ample  hearth  beyond  which 
the  old  fire-dogs,  though  getting  a  little  unsteady 
on  the  legs,  still  manage  to  support  the  load  of 
fagots. 

When  the  wintry  winds  sweep  round  the  ancient 
gables,  Betsy  loves  to  crawl  to  the  accustomed 
corner  and  watch  the  flames  leap  higher  and  higher, 
laughing  up  the  great  throat  of  the  chimney  and 
making  sardonic  grins  break  forth  on  the  fire- 
dogs'  brazen  faces. 

The  immutable  candlesticks  of  brass  stand  un- 
tarnished on  the  high  mantel  and  gleam  down  on 
an  innocent  pair  of  snuffers.  These  have  had  good 
use  in  their  day,  not  only  as  a  natural  extinguisher 
of  the  tallow  dip,  but  in  pointed  admonition  as  they 
snuffed  out  the  ardor  of  the  youth  who  burned  on 
after  nine  o'clock.  Nine  o'clock  was  the  end  of 

24 


BETSY  BUMBLE. 

time  in  Betsy's  household  and  woe  betide  the  later- 
lingerer.  Betsy  still  wears  the  ancestral  checkered 
apron  upon  whose  fading  squares  many  a  house- 
hold miscreant  has  found  his  Waterloo.  The 
ruffle  of  the  old  cap  stands  out  in  starched  sim- 
plicity still,  and  offers  stiff  affront  to  the  mis- 
guided adventurer  who  storms  with  modern  fusil- 
lade this  ancient  fortress  of  ancestral  walls  and 
relics.  Betsy  Bumble  is  growing  old  indeed,  and, 
like  a  broken  cameo  in  an  antique  setting,  she  sits 
dim-eyed  and  bowed  with  age  in  the  great  arm 
chair  in  the  old,  old  corner  and  hears  the  world 
go  by  on  the  outer  side  of  the  wall  that  hems  her 
garden.  The  one  connecting  link  between  the  life 
that  lies  behind  her  and  that  whose  outer  limit 
seems  but  the  turning  of  a  leaf,  is  the  modern 
newspaper,  and  to  Betsy's  old-fashioned  ideas  of 
morality  and  common  sense,  it  is  bristling  with  hor- 
rors. With  trembling  hand  she  turns  the  great 
leaf  and  sees  with  burning  eyes  the  voluminous 
illustration  of  Mrs.  Euphemia  Highstepper's  high 
tea.  She  sees  the  approach  to  moral  disaster  in 
the  pool  rooms,  and  "Saints  defend  us,"  still  far- 
ther on,  a  vision  of  the  last  throes  of  moral  dis- 
solution pass  through  her  perturbed  mind  in  that 
perversion  of  manly  strength,  that  tragedy  of  prin- 
ciple, that  desecration  of  the  temple  wherein  God 
has  placed  the  soul  to  shine  and  beautify  the  acts 
of  life, — the  prize  fight.  As  Betsy  moralizes  on 
all  these  modern  evidences  of  so-called  progress, 

25 


BETSY  BUMBLE. 

her  mind  goes  back  to  the  bonny  days  of  old-fash- 
ioned teas  when  people  were  comfortable — they 
did  not  stand  for  three  mortal  hours  on  a  sol- 
itary spot  in  the  carpet  and  long  from  untold 
weariness  of  mind  and  body  for  the  end  of  it  all 
— they  sat  in  high-backed  chairs,  and  knitted  Jo- 
siah's  socks  or  pared  the  juicy  apple  for  "sass"  and 
passed  'round  sweet  cider  for  tea.  These  were 
simple  old  days,  but  they  were  pure  and  sweet  and 
gentle,  and  as  Betsy  looks  back  over  these  ended 
chapters  in  her  life,  mildewed  with  age,  a  sense 
of  something  lost  forever  creeps  over  her  spirit 
and  the  checkered  apron  tries  to  play  its  part  in 
molesting  the  unbidden  tear,  but  the  rustling  paper, 
with  its  horrors,  like  a  wintry  blight  touching  a 
drop  of  dew,  freezes  it  while  it  falls,  and  Betsy 
goes  on  moralizing. 

She  passes  the  race  of  the  bicycle  girls — the 
tragedy  of  the  pool  room  points  its  own  moral, 
but  as  though  over-mastered,  Betsy  turns  her  per- 
plexed old  head  when  it  comes  to  the  prize  fight, 
and  thinks  surely  the  world  has  a  "bee  in  its  bon- 
net." She  is  very  old-fashioned,  is  Betsy  and  you 
must  make  allowances  for  her  when  she  wonders 
why  the  man  of  brawn  draws  the  multitude  and 
lines  his  pockets  with  gold,  while  the  man  of  brain 
whose  genius  might  uplift  the  multitude,  starves 
in  a  garret,  an  unworthy  world  paying  tribute  to 
his  dust  long  after  he  has  ceased  to  need  it.  This 
strange  old  figure  wonders,  too,  how  the  church 

26 


BETSY  BUMBLE. 

deacon  can  reconcile  his  outward  life  and  his  in- 
ward ethics,  when  he,  too,  passes  with  the  motley 
crowd  within  the  fistic  amphitheater,  his  eye-glass 
fastened  close  to  his  optic  that  he  may  not  miss  a 
point.  This  modern  civilization  is  truly  a  per- 
plexing study,  and  to  Betsy,  it  seems  like  a  wheel 
revolving  'round  to  its  starting  point  again — bar- 
barism. 

This  poor  old  land-mark,  Betsy  Bumble,  whom 
time  has  forgotten  to  erase,  has  grown  tired  with 
it  all.  She  smooths  down  the  checkered  apron,  and 
leaning  on  the  uncomplaining  staff,  hobbles  wearily 
to  the  west  window  and  looks  out  upon  the  garden 
— old-fashioned,  too,  like  the  rest,  with  rows  of 
hollyhocks  and  clusters  of  wall-flowers  spilling 
their  scent  cups  against  the  barricade  in  a  sunny 
angle.  Sunflowers,  with  golden  crowns  following 
in  wanton  coquetry,  the  sun — Syringas,  with  white 
faces  peeping  through  a  broken  lattice,  and  here, 
close  at  hand,  a  bunch  of  eglantine.  It  makes 
Betsy  think  of  another  bunch  lying  deep  among 
some  treasures  in  a  dusty  corner  of  the  attic,  where, 
with  broken  heart,  she  laid  them  many  years  ago. 
She  turns  again  to  the  garden  now.  The  slow 
declining  sun  touches  with  fingers  of  fading  flame, 
the  flower  tops  stretching  their  slender  necks  over 
the  wall  to  say  good  night,  and  the  long  shadow 
of  the  well-sweep  falls  across  a  little  mound,  where 
the  dandelions  bloom  in  spring  time  and  the 
grasses  sway  in  summer.  The  maples  sift  their 

27 


BETSY  BUMBLE. 

leaves  upon  that  quiet  spot  when  the  autumn  winds 
go  by,  and  there  winter,  crossing  again  and  again 
with  noiseless  footsteps,  drops  the  drifting  snow. 

All  is  silent  in  the  garden  now,  even  the  winds 
have  ceased  to  whisper,  and,  as  Betsy's  wistful 
glances  fall  on  that  quiet  grave,  thinking  of  the 
world's  temptation,  she  murmurs,  "It  is  well !" 
With  trembling  steps  she  totters  back  to  the  old 
corner;  the  paper  lies  unheeded  on  the  floor  while 
with  bent  head,  falling  lower  and  lower,  Betsy 
drowses  and  dreams  in  the  ingle.  The  last  ray 
of  the  departing  sun  strikes  aslant  the  old  brass 
candlestick,  which,  bursting  into  sudden  brightness, 
discloses  a  solitary  tear  lying  in  a  furrow  of 
Betsy's  withered  cheek — fallen  for  a  degenerate 
world.  Beyond  the  wall  busy  life  goes  bustling 
by,  but  Betsy  is  asleep. 

We  will  not  vex  you,  Betsy,  with  questions  of 
our  modern  philosophy,  you  are  happier  than  we. 
Drowse  and  dream  in  the  ingle  of  olden  days  come 
back. 


28 


AN  APRIL  DAY'S  REFLECTION. 

Some  one  said  not  long  ago,  "Do  give  us  a  paper 
on  true  philanthropy."  Now,  I  realized  that  this 
was  a  good  subject,  and  sat  down  during  the  lei- 
sure of  an  April  afternoon  and  tried  desperately  to 
study  it  out;  thinking  how  philanthropy  was  wide 
and  deep,  fed  by  many  streams,  each  trying  in  its 
own  way  to  reach  the  sea.  With  reverted  vision, 
I  followed  backward  the  winding  water-courses, 
seeking  the  source  of  the  purest  stream,  and  I 
might  have  found  it,  but  suddenly,  at  the  point  of 
discovery,  buzz !  buzz !  buzz !  went  a  great  blue 
bottle  against  the  window-pane,  and,  looking — 
lo ! — the  bay,  aflash  with  its  thousand  points  of 
sunlight,  fisher-boats  aswing  with  the  tide  below, 
seagulls,  like  day's  white  fire-flies  aswing  with  the 
winds  above;  wheeling  and  whirring,  dipping  and 
dripping,  then  soaring  and  sailing  into  the  mists  of 
the  distance.  Alcatraz,  like  a  swan,  lay  asleep  on 
the  water,  and  beyond  the  soft  green  hills  on  the 
farther  shore,  lines  of  broken  ranges  loomed  blue 
and  dim  and  distant,  and  seemed  to  say,  "Beyond 
and  still  beyond,  other  blue  shadows  dim  and  deep, 
dream  in  the  cup-like  hollows  of  other  hills."  Over 
all,  wrinkled  and  sleepless  that  old  warrior,  Tam- 
a4pais,  watched  by  the  Western  Gate. 

Under  my  window,  buttercups  blinked  their 
golden  eyes  at  the  sun  and  through  every  cedar 

29 


AN   APRIL  DAY'S  REFLECTION. 

tree  near  at  hand  the  wind  was  switching  her  skirts 
in  a  most  maddening  fashion.  Now,  I  ask  you, 
how  could  I  think  of  philanthropy?  The  only 
thought  that  obstinately  came  and  persistently 
stayed,  was  of  the  beauty  of  the  world  and  how 
we  spoil  it  by  our  living.  Why  to  us,  does  the  mote 
always  swim  in  the  sunbeam  and  the  cloud  always 
hold  a  tear? 

Slowly,  out  from  the  beauty  of  a  day's  perfec- 
tion, the  question  floated  before  my  mind.  What 
is  the  true  philosophy  of  living? — the  philosophy 
that  makes  the  external  world  always  beautiful  to 
us  and  in  sympathy  with  our  various  moods  ? — our 
companion  in  joy,  our  solace  in  grief,  our  hope  in 
despair.  If  we  listen  to  the  pleadings  of  our  higher 
nature,  and  let  love  and  charity  dominate  our  lives, 
bear  the  daily  crosses,  fulfill  the  constantly  re- 
curring duties  that  are  but  stepping  stones  to  a 
life's  fruition,  surely  this  dear  old  mother  Earth 
will  give  us  of  her  own  again,  for  young,  beauti- 
ful and  tender,  she  is  ever  responsive  to  the  har- 
mony of  a  soul  that  strives  and  conquers.  Ages 
roll  away,  but,  unchanging  and  unchangeable,  in 
the  same  old  fashion,  century  after  century,  na- 
ture opens  the  door  of  Spring  and  throws  the  flow- 
ers among  the  upland  grasses,  fans  the  earth  with 
the  summer  winds,  pouring  over  all  the  soft  glam- 
our of  the  hills  and  music  of  water-courses,  many 
and  varied,  and  these  riches  nothing  can  destroy 
save  the  remorse  of  a  sin-blighted  life.  Dear 

30 


AN  APRIL  DAY'S  REFLECTION. 

friend,  did  you  ever  watch  a  wheat  field  on  an 
April  day  and  note,  where  the  yellow  sunshine 
played  upon  the  bending  grain,  a  shadow  swiftly 
follow?  Did  you  ever  hear  the  low,  sweet  laugh- 
ter of  the  maple  leaves  at  play,  shade  off  to 
whispered  lamentation  in  the  pines?  Did  you  ever 
do  a  conscious  wrong  that  the  joy  of  living  was 
not  marred  after? 

Old  friends,  we  are  so  human,  and  the  human 
and  divine  are  constantly  warring  within  us  for 
supremacy.  We  are  such  weaklings!  We  have 
our  ideals  and  mean  to  do  so  much,  but  life's  meas- 
urement is  not  made  by  our  intentions.  Alas !  that 
it  were  so.  We  let  the  days  slip  by  and  from 
hour  to  hour  we  mean  to  do  the  thing  we  plan, 
but  the  water  forever  rushes  on  to  the  sea  and 
what  we  hold  today  may  be  beyond  our  reach  to- 
morrow. Have  we  wronged  a  friend?  We  say, 
"To-morrow  I  will  right  the  wrong,"  but  many 
to-morrow's  come  and  go,  and  misunderstood,  her 
shadow  may  finally  fall  no  more  in  familiar  places, 
and  still  we  have  not  spoken.  Friend,  along  the 
lessening  way,  for  many  the  hour  grows  late,  and 
shadows  of  the  coming  night  settle  deeper  upon 
the  flagging  steps.  Let  us  strive  to  live  as  though 
there  were  no  to-morrow.  If  we  forget  to  speak 
the  word  that  hurts,  if  we  remember  that  in  every 
creature  God  has  made,  there  is  some  good  worth 
the  winning,  if  we  understand  that  we  who  are 
surrounded  by  a  fortress  of  untempted  virtue  are 

31 


AN   APRIL  DAY'S  REFLECTION. 

not  fitted  to  judge  the  erring,  and  so  cease  to  con- 
demn! if  we  know  that  sometimes  the  worm  may 
lie  at  the  heart  of  apparently  serene  and  upright 
lives,  and  so  be  not  their  judges,  if  we  shelter  the 
lowly,  and  though  our  own  lives  may  lie  along  the 
quiet  by-ways,  remember  that  the  simple  fragrance 
of  a  wayside  flower  that  blooms  in  the  sun,  may 
sweeten  the  life  of  the  bramble  that  grows  in  the 
shade.  If  we  strive  to  be  good  rather  than  great, — 
as  goodness  lifts  us  into  heaven  and  greatness  stops 
at  the  open  grave, — surely,  like  a  child  upon  its 
mother's  breast,  we  may  fall  asleep  at  last.  Dear 
friend,  as  the  April  wind  sways  the  green  curtain 
of  the  hills,  I  can  but  feel  that  when  the  grass 
grows  over  me,  if  I  shall  have  made  some  life  the 
better  for  my  living,  my  own  were  not  empty  or 
useless  or  lost. 

Through  the  Western  Gate  a  long  line  of  mist 
creeps  up,  and,  like  a  fond  white  arm,  it  throws 
across  the  bended  neck  of  Tamalpais.  One  star, 
like  a  golden  tear,  hangs  on  the  closing  eyelids  of 
the  day,  and  in  the  swaying  cedar  near  my  window, 
a  bird  has  found  the  true  philosophy  of  living, 
for  in  the  gathering  night  he  still  sings  of  love 
and  faith  unto  his  mate. 


THE  CONVERSION  OF  AN  UNBELIEVER. 

The  old  clock  whose  cracked  loquacity  told  off 
the  hours  on  the  ancient  dial,  was  just  striking  the 
hour  of  twelve,  when  Aunt  Betsy  climbed  the  stairs 
with  a  feeling  of  complacency  over  a  well-rounded 
morning.  It  had  been  doughnut  day  with  Aunt 
Betsy  and  a  momentous  one  in  the  household,  for 
Matthew,  Mark,  Luke  and  John  by  secret  and 
persistent  attacks  upon  the  fruit  of  her  labors, 
had  managed  to  fill  out  their  own  waist-coats  and 
bring  about  a  state  of  garrulity  from  Aunt  Betsy 
that  reminded  that  good  lady  that  he  who  gov- 
erned his  temper  was  better  than  he  that  ruled 
a  city.  Aunt  Betsy  was  a  dear,  quaint  body  of 
the  old  school,  whose  life  had  been  summed  up  in 
the  performance  of  household  duties,  running 
through  the  gamut  of  the  week.  From  washing  on 
Monday,  though  the  skies  fell,  each  day  told  off 
like  a  bead  upon  a  rosary  with  a  prayer  for 
strength,  to  Saturday's  cleaning,  winding  up  with 
a  drill  on  the  ten  commandments,  and  the  fam- 
ily bath;  admonitions  to  Matthew,  Mark,  Luke  and 
John  and  applications  of  hickory  ointment  for  the 
good  of  their  souls,  applied  with  neatness  and  des- 
patch, and  spread  thick  with  doses  of  dreary 
catechism. 

Dear  Aunt  Betsy,  serene  in  the  consciousness 
of  accomplished  good,  sank  into  the  depths  of  the 

33 


THE  CONVERSION   OF  AN   UNBELIEVER. 

ancient  rocker  and  gave  herself  up  to  the  restful- 
ness  of  self-abandonment.  Without,  it  was  a  day 
of  storm.  A  low  continuous  patter  played  upon 
the  fallen  leaves  and  withered  weeds  upon  the  hills, 
as  though  the  wind  were  weeping.  Low  ripples  ran 
along  the  tops  of  the  summer's  dying  grasses,  and 
silence  fell  between  the  birds.  No  sound  of  foot- 
steps in  the  street,  and  quiet  in  the  world  save 
moaning  wind  and  monotone  of  falling  rain. 

Within,  it  was  a  day  of  peace.  Tabby,  whose 
lazy  length  had  been  polished  by  unremitting  ef- 
fort, purred  a  soft  contentment  and  sought  by  a 
gentle  clawing,  to  win  a  show  of  favor  from  Aunt 
Betsy,  who  was  inwardly  reviewing  the  backward 
pathway  of  her  life,  and  outwardly  gazing  upon 
storm.  Now,  it  had  often  been  in  my  mind  to 
sound  Aunt  Betsy  upon  the  trend  of  modern 
times,  and  just  now  the  conditions  seemed  favor- 
able for  successful  discussion — so,  quoth  I,  "Aunt 
Betsy,  do  you  believe  in  women's  clubs?"  Aunt 
Betsy  stiffened  in  a  way  that  relegated  Tabby  to 
a  far  corner  and  the  "No"  that  made  the  cap  frill 
tremble  was  not  to  be  mistaken.  The  husking  bee 
and  the  quilting  party  were  far  better  clubs  in  her 
eyes,  and  the  glamour  of  the  departed  Dutch  oven 
and  spinning  wheel  filled  her  mind  with  a  golden 
glory  that  no  modern  ill-smelling  gas  stove  and 
noisy  sewing  machine  could  dissipate.  For  a 
woman  to  lift  her  voice  in  a  crowded  assembly  was 
a  disgrace  not  to  be  tolerated  in  her  day,  and  the 

34 


THE  CONVERSION   OF   AN   UNBELIEVER. 

girl  who  went  gid-gadding  off  to  clubs  to  show  her 
smart  frock  and  drink  tea  with  lime  juice  in  it, 
would  better  be  home  stringing  peppers.  It  was 
plain  to  be  seen  that  Aunt  Betsy  was  getting 
wound  up  and  that  my  instinct  as  to  this  being  a 
propitious  occasion  had  been  misleading.  So, 
gently  as  we  sing  a  child  to  sleep,  through  the 
pauses  of  the  rain,  I  told  Aunt  Betsy  the  story  of 
a  little  club  I  knew  and  how  its  influence  upon 
women  had  been  good.  How  it  was  cradled  in 
the  old  Hall  whose  great  square  sides  each  faced 
some  beauty  in  nature  that  stirred  the  heart. 

East,  the  lowlands  starred  with  spring  forget- 
me-nots,  sloped  to  the  bay,  across  whose  shining 
waters,  forever  and  ever  beckoned  the  blue  moun- 
tains. The  goodnight  glint  of  the  sun  illumined 
some  western  slope  beyond  our  ken.  Northward 
the  dark  laurels  stood  and  listened  for  the  foot- 
steps of  the  wind,  then  leaned  and  whispered  mys- 
teries of  that  life  we  longed  to  enter.  Southward, 
the  redwoods  stood  on  some  far  hill,  emblems  of 
the  strength  and  greatness  we  sometime  hoped 
to  attain.  Thus  from  meadow,  tree-top  and  hill 
always  came  the  same  song  of  life,  life,  life.  Aunt 
Betsy  heard  how  one  day  a  bevy  of  girls  in  the 
old  corridor  formed  the  nucleus  of  a  club,  we  per- 
petuated later  on,  as  matrons,  and  which  we  have 
grown  to  love  and  need.  Round  it  cluster  women 
who  give  it  their  helpful  thought  and  rich  intel- 
ligence. We  need  each  other.  We  are  helped  by 

35 


THE  CONVERSION   OF   AN  UNBELIEVER. 

the  reflected  light  of  stronger  spirits  than  our  own, 
and  we  travel  the  highway  of  life  gathering  sweet- 
ness from  songs  that  are  sung  by  others. 

"Aunt  Betsy,"  quoth  I,  "there  seems  nothing 
sadder  in  life  than  to  travel  the  backward  path 
toward  childhood  and  find  nothing  but  broken  mile- 
stones or  the  dead  ashes  of  fires  long  since  gone  out ; 
no  wayside  flower  that  blooms  from  the  seed  we 
planted.  No  common  life  lifted  a  little  way 
heaven-ward  from  a  note  we  dropped  from  a 
summer  song  in  passing.  In  this  prosy  work-a- 
day  world  how  many  can  look  back  where  the 
childish  feet  have  stepped  over  the  border  of 
school  days  and  find  that  life  has  fulfilled  its 
hopes  ?  The  waves  that  play  about  our  feet  to-day 
break  on  a  far  off  shore  to-morrow.  The  locust- 
balm  that  fills  the  garden  of  our  youth,  sweetens 
some  life  that  is  not  our  own.  The  fruit  that 
hangs  untouched  by  storm,  to  the  earth  falls  em- 
bittered, and  lips  that  have  uttered  the  fondest 
endearments  pass  into  the  long  silence  at  the  jour- 
ney's end  with  oft  scarce  the  memory  of  a  kiss. 
On  the  common  ground  where  mind  meets  mind 
and  thoughts  are  voiced  for  our  own  and  others' 
good,  a  light  may  reach  the  fountain  where  tears 
lie  deep  and  illumine  it  with  smiles.  The  wilder- 
ness may  bloom  for  those  who  never  knew  the 
perfume  of  a  flower,  and  the  body  that  bends  with 
toil  to  the  ground,  may  find  a  soul  that  soars 
above  the  clouds." 

36 


THE  CONVERSION   OF  AN   UNBELIEVER. 

Tabby  opened  her  jaws  and  yawned,  and  Aunt 
Betsy  lulled  by  the  low  sound  of  the  soughing 
wind  and  the  monotony  of  my  voice  had  wandered 
off  to  dreamland  and  was  settling  the  vexed  ques- 
tion of  clubs  with  the  sandman.  I  looked  at  the 
worn,  old  face  and  the  patient  fingers  lying  still, 
and  thought  how  much  energy  of  Aunt  Betsy's 
life  had  been  wasted  in  pots  and  pans  and  patches, 
and  if  the  old  garments  that  hung  among  the  raft- 
ers in  the  attic,  long  since  given  over  to  the  moths 
and  the  dust,  could  speak,  how  many  tender  and 
beautiful  thoughts  that  were  woven  in  with  the 
needle's  thrust,  might  have  found  a  home  in 
somebody's  heart. 

Just  here  Aunt  Betsy  stirred.  "I  have  dreamed 
a  dream  of  a  battle,"  she  said,  "a  great  war  was 
being  waged  in  the  world  between  an  army  of  but- 
tons and  an  army  of  thoughts.  The  buttons  fought 
fast  and  furiously,  but  senseless  and  inert,  they 
could  not  reproduce  themselves,  but  the  thoughts 
grew  and  grew  and  overshadowed  the  world.  I 
see,  my  dear,  I  have  been  the  button-woman,  and 
my  kind  is  passing  away.  Time  silhouettes  the 
coming  change  on  the  tottering  steps  of  the  dying 
age.  I  shall  be  remembered  as  the  dear  old  mother 
who  kept  the  hearth-stone  bright,  but  now  I  think 
I  should  like  to  be  revered  for  something  better," 
and  she  gazed  wistfully  off  to  the  low  hills  where 
the  white  tents  of  the  soldiers  gleamed,  and  over 
the  mounds  where  "life's  fitful  fever  over," 

37 


THE  CONVERSION   OF   AN   UNBELIEVER. 

dreamed  the  sleepers  who  never  waken.  "Build 
your  community  of  clubs,  my  dear,  live  in  it,  and 
grow  upward  and  outward  into  the  sunlight.  It 
will  be  better  so;  I  am  the  old  mother  who  has 
lived  in  the  shadow  of  little  things."  There  is  a 
single  spot  of  blue  growing  bigger  where  the 
clouds  divide,  and  above  the  sound  of  the  flying 
wind  is  heard,  the  old  clock  on  the  stairs  solemnly 
striking  the  hour  of  five.  "Well,"  said  Aunt 
Betsy,  the  ruling  passion  strong  in  death,  "It  is 
time  to  put  the  kettle  on." 


OVER  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

There  are  outings  and  outings,  many  and 
varied,  from  the  primitive  camp,  where  simplicity 
and  lazy  content  go  hand  in  hand,  down  through 
all  the  intervening  grades  of  summering  to  the 
ultra-fashionable  seaside  resort,  where  style  and 
gayety  spread  and  sparkle  with  eager  restlessness, 
but  is  there  any  outing  that  is  more  satisfactory 
than  a  first  trip  over  the  mountains,  over  and 
down  into  the  gray  wastes  beyond,  known  as 
Nevada  ? 

As  we  climb  up  the  great  slopes  the  mind  ex- 
periences an  elation  that  soon  grows  into  a  buoy- 
ancy almost  painful  at  the  gradually  unfolding 
beauties  of  the  upper  altitudes.  Heaven  seems 
no  further  away  than  the  crowded  tree-tops  that 
beckon  and  whisper  and  sing  to  each  other  away 
up  there  above  our  heads,  and  playfully  fret  the 
flying  brook  by  dropping  cones  upon  its  spray- 
flecked  lips.  The  flowers  spill  their  fragrance  on 
the  air  and  bloom  and  bloom  on  every  sunny 
slope,  and  peep  their  heads  from  every  rocky  crevice 
on  the  heights  until  nature  no  longer  affords  them 
a  foothold  on  her  battlements  and  they  creep  back 
to  find  an  asylum  where  the  ever  tender  moss  en- 
circles the  gnarled  roots  of  the  old  forest  trees. 
The  dying  summer  sifts  through  the  air  the  spice 
needles  of  the  pines,  and  so  covers  them  from 

39 


OVER  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

sight,  while  the  delicate  banners  of  fern  wave 
over  them  in  tremulous  sympathy  their  lacy  fab- 
rics of  green.  And  now  Nature,  the  yearning 
mother  who  still  longs  to  hold  the  hearts  of  her 
children,  stars,  like  an  afterglow,  the  open  spaces 
with  rich  browns  and  yellows  and  the  tell-tale 
blush  of  leaves  at  the  frost's  familiar  touch. 

Down  in  the  gorge  the  tumbling  rivulet  shows  a 
laughing  face  and  through  shimmer  and  shadow 
darts  in  and  out  and  down,  and  away,  until,  when 
the  day  has  gone  and  stars  have  come,  it  lays  its 
weary  head  upon  some  gentle  river's  breast,  and 
falls  asleep  among  the  reeds  in  some  distant 
meadow.  All  the  air  seems  to  pulsate  with  some 
low  vibrations  of  sound,  of  mingled  whir  of  wing, 
stir  of  leaf,  drop  of  cone,  stealthy  movement  of 
some  mottled  snake,  tinkle  of  hidden  rill,  and 
every  now  and  then,  as  if  accenting  the  mellowed 
measures  of  the  open  day,  the  quail  pipes  out  and 
the  plaintive  dove  sobs  away  its  grief  in  the  shadow 
of  some  leafy  tree.  Overhead  the  clouds  sail  by 
and  over  the  bending  pine-tops  and  by  our  over- 
strained sense  we  can  hear  them  dip  their  oars  in 
the  ocean  of  blue  as  they  sail  away,  away  to  the 
Unknown  Land.  Oh,  how  beautiful  it  all  is  and 
just  as  we  are  wondering  if  earth  is  all  like  this, 
suddenly  the  mind  receives  a  shock,  and  we  find 
ourselves  standing  on  the  verge  of  a  desert — to 
our  excited  fancy  limitless  and  as  silent  as  space. 
Only  one  who  has  traveled  through  Nevada,  can 

40 


OVER  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

understand  the  contrast  that  is  incomprehensible 
to  a  stranger,  between  the  barrenness  of  that  deso- 
late country  and  the  magnificent  beauty  of  the 
mountains  that  hedge  the  desert  like  an  outer 
wall  of  perennial  green.  God  seems  to  have 
ceased  to  smile — the  streams  shrink  away  and 
hide  themselves  in  the  sands — low  groups  of  hills 
raise  themselves  brokenly  and  vanish  in  the  dis- 
tance as  if  pursued. 

Years  ago  I  visited  friends  who  lived  in  Nevada 
many  miles  inland  from  the  railroad  and  shall 
never  forget  the  impressions  made  by  that  trip. 
The  country  was  new  to  me  then  and  the  spell 
of  the  mountains  just  passed  was  still  sufficiently 
strong  to  make  the  contrast  more  glaring  and 
painful.  We  drove  through  stretches  of  waste 
that  seemed  endless.  Sand,  sand,  everywhere,  and 
the  silence!  Oh,  I  thought  if  I  could  only  hear 
the  rustle  of  a  blade  of  corn  or  catch  the  drowsy 
tinkle  of  a  cow-bell  in  the  old  home-meadow,  how 
much  it  would  allay  the  suffocating  sense  of  home- 
sickness, but  without  a  sound  through  a  vast  and 
empty  world  we  sped  away.  Alkaline  patches 
lifted  their  white  faces  now  and  then  from  the 
desert,  as  if  appealing  from  such  a  destiny.  Once 
a  grim-looking  coyote  showed  his  hungry  length 
about  a  rod  away,  but  man  was  such  an  unfamil- 
iar object  that  even  to  him,  he  aroused  no  sense 
of  fear,  but  leisurely  trotted  aside  into  the  brush. 
By  nightfall  we  reached  our  journey's  end,  the 

41 


OVER  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

house  of  "mine  host"  being  in  a  narrow  valley 
which  had  suddenly  opened  as  though  to  give  us 
shelter.  Perched  high  up  on  a  rocky  ledge  were 
seen  the  houses  of  the  operatives  of  a  mine  which 
we  visited  the  following  day.  It  was  such  a  com- 
fort to  know  there  was  another  mountain  in  the 
world,  and  that  trees  grew  upon  it,  although  they 
were  poor,  stunted,  thirsty  things,  long  since  put 
out  of  countenance  by  the  sun,  who  never  took 
his  glaring  eye  off  them  except  to  let  night  drop  her 
tears  of  comfort. 

The  following  day  by  a  zigzag  course,  we 
reached  the  mine  which  was  the  ultima  thule  of 
our  expedition.  As  we  stood  on  a  leveled  prom- 
ontory, behind  us  were  mingled  in  inarticulate 
sound  the  hurrying  of  feet,  hum  of  voices,  and. 
the  boom  of  the  mill,  while  before  us  spread  a 
silent  picture  that  has  never  been  effaced  through 
all  the  changing  panorama  of  place  and  circum- 
stance. Our  extreme  line  of  vision  seemed  in  that 
clear  atmosphere  to  stretch  a  hundred  miles  away, 
while  along  the  far  intervening  distance  ran  a 
lofty  chain  of  hills,  and  meeting  it  transversely 
another  chain,  the  whole  forming  a  gigantic  cross 
about  whose  varied  cones  and  hollows  played  the 
opalescent  tints  of  declining  day — rose  melting 
into  amethyst  and  amethyst  catching  the  shimmer 
of  the  golden  heat  that  still  lay  in  the  valleys  be- 
tween. Even  while  I  looked,  upon  this  changing 
cross  began  the  crucifixion  of  the  Day,  and  then: 

42 


OVER  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

Along  the  vivid  borders  of  the  sunset  lands 

A  tremor  passed,  and  wandering  groups 

Of  clouds  low-poised  themselves 

Above  Earth's  western  hills,  and  swept 

The  pathway  at  the  sunset  gate 

With  the  tremulous  fringings  of  their  drapery. 

Fair  forms  with  hair  of  burnished  gold 
Were  there — floating  wide  upon  the  wind 
Their  tresses,  and  rolling  fold  on  fold 
Of  rich-wrought  lace  against  the  rare 
Vermilion  robes  of  those 
Who  strayed  from  realms  impassioned, 
Meek  and  sad,  with  pale  hands  folded, 
And  eyelids  drooped  with  tears. 
Some  cloudlets  wandered  in,  and  stood 
Behind  the  others,  their  creamy  vests 
Just  tinged,  like  foam  within  a  pink  sea-shell 
By  the  reflection.     Some  in  cars  of  sea-pearl, 
Flung  wide  their  flaunting  scarfs, 
And  halted  in  their  whirling  flight, 
Throughout  the  farther  heaven 
To  be  present  at  the  burial. 

The  King  was  dead  and  buried; 
Slowly  one  by  one  the  vast  procession 
Drew  up  their  fluttering  robes,  whose  hue 
Was  all  swept  out  to  ashen  grey — 
Gave  one  last  look  and  silently  departed. 
Faded  into  dreamy  indistinctness 
Among  the  realms  of  space,  and  lonely  left 
The  sepulchre  in  the  sunset  lands. 

So  the  vision  passed,  and  as  Evening  tiptoed  over 
the  mountain-top,  she  softly  dropped  the  shadows 
upon  the  grave  of  the  dead  day  and  climbing  aloft 

43 


OVER  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

hung  out  her  golden  lamps  by  whose  light  we  de- 
scended into  the  valley. 

That  was  years  ago,  but  often  a  tint  in  the  sun- 
set, the  haze  over  a  summer  field,  or  a  young 
moon  shaking  out  the  golden  drops  of  stars  upon 
the  closing  eyelids  of  the  day  will  bring  back  that 
gigantic  cross  stretching  itself  in  the  limitless 
desert,  and  make  a  picture  that  like  a  lost  sunbeam 
among  the  accumulated  scenes  of  passing  time 
turns  to  gold  again  the  edge  of  fading  recollection. 


44 


THE  CRITIC'S  GUILLOTINE. 

It  is  not  an  easy  matter  at  a  breakfast  given  here, 

To  have  as  is  expected,  the  wisdom  of  a  seer. 

But  though  my  chosen  words  may  be  neither  wise 

nor  witty, 

For  future  generations,  just  listen  to  my  ditty 
Of  what  befalls  a  woman,  which  plainly  may  be  seen, 
When  she  attempts  the  conquest  of  the  critic's 

guillotine. 

In  the  silence  of  the  midnight  when  the  rain  is  on 
the  roof, 

And  the  sounds  of  life  and  laughter  from  the  dark- 
ness stand  aloof, 

We  seek  the  dusty  attic,  and  with  labored  pen  and 
brain 

Prepare  some  mighty  treatise  that  shall  fire  the 
world  again; 

Forgetting  that  the  critic  with  a  high  and  lordly 
mien 

Is  stalking  forth  at  midnight  with  his  little  guil- 
lotine. 

In  the  same  old-fashioned  manner  since  first  the 

world  began, 

We  evolute  a  theory  on  the  "Origin  of  Man;" 
We  fancy  we  are  saviors  of  a  much  benighted  race, 
And  put  the  scheme  on  paper,  not  omitting  time 

or  place, 

45 


THE  CRITIC'S  GUILLOTINE. 

Expecting  that  the  masses  we  shall  certainly  en- 
snare ; 
But  the  critic  with  his  literary  guillotine  is  there. 

In  questions  problematical,  woman  plunges  with  a 

will; 
And  in  all  things  deep  and  weighty,   she  never 

keepeth  still. 
She  tells  in  lines  "ad  libitum"  through  many  a 

lengthening  page, 
How  the  youth  became  a  barber  when  he  might 

have  been  a  sage. 
But  when  on  the  city  editor  she  lays  this  heavy 

tax; 
She  meets  the  sleepless  critic  with  his  literary  axe. 

In  political  economy  woman  stands  beside  the  man, 

Ever  ready  at  his  elbow  to  suggest  a  better  plan. 

Throughout  the  scale  of  knowledge  from  philos- 
ophy to  dough, 

There's  really  not  a  single  thing  that  a  woman 
doesn't  know. 

But  let  her  try  to  prove  it  with  headlines  rare  and 
racy, 

And  the  literary  guillotine  consigns  to  rest  "in 
pace." 

There  is  oft  decreed  to  women  the  most  unhappy 

fate, 
To  miss  the  opportunity  that  might  have  made  her 

great. 


THE  CRITIC'S  GUILLOTINE. 

When  the  storms  of  coming  winter,  beat  against 

the  window-pane; 
We  climb  with  slower  footsteps  the  attic  stairs 

again, 
And  from  the  dusty  corner  where  the  spider  spins 

its  web, 
We  resurrect  our  offspring  from  the  chambers  of 

the  dead. 

We  muse  on  all  the  glory  departed  with  the  years, 

When  our  rejected  article  was  buried  deep  with 
tears ; 

And  the  spider  stops  its  spinning  and  the  dust  for- 
gets to  settle, 

As  we  mournfully  remember  how  we  stood  upon 
our  mettle, 

When  the  thistles  of  our  fancy  and  the  flowers  that 
grew  between, 

Were  leveled  by  the  critic  with  his  little  guillotine. 

Now  all  the  lady  toasters  who  are  gathered  here 

this  day 

To  celebrate  a  breakfast  in  a  most  unusual  way; 
If  you  wish  your  witty  sayings  exploited  to  the 

nation, 

See  that  the  City  Editor's  away  on  his  vacation — 
Else  in  to-morrow's  columns  where  you  hoped  you 

might  be  seen, 
You'll  read — "A  Literary  Slaughter  by  the  Critic's 

Guillotine." 

47 


AN  ALASKAN  OUTING. 

The  good  steamer  Queen  moved  out  of  San 
Francisco  harbor  the  3ist  of  May,  bearing  a 
passenger  who  was  divided  between  smiles  and 
tears  over  a  long  anticipated  trip.  The  family 
were  all  drawn  up  in  solemn  array  as  though 
South  Africa  were  involved,  and  friends  with 
flowers  and  books  wished  me  a  pleasant  journey. 
The  day  was  beautiful  and  the  fog  which  had 
been  so  much  dreaded  was  accommodating 
enough  to  keep  in  the  background. 

As  the  old  Queen  swung  slowly  out  of  sight, 
faint  and  fainter  grew  the  fluttering  of  handker- 
chiefs. I  could  dimly  descry  my  home  lying  off 
among  the  shore  hills;  presently,  with  a  little 
homesick  feeling,  this,  too,  was  blotted  out. 

Through  the  Golden  Gate  past  Points  Bonita 
and  Reyes,  and  we  ran  into  a  wild  sea,  the  waves 
lashing  themselves  into  great  billows  of  foam 
which  the  wind  swirled  off  into  rings  of  rainbow. 
The  steamer  at  times  seemed  to  stand  still  on  the 
crest  of  a  wave,  then  took  a  header  that  argued 
ill  for  any  sea-sick  temperaments.  This  was  all 
magnificent,  but  to  a  novice,  somewhat  terrifying. 
Only  one  lady  appeared  at  table  for  a  day  and  a 
half.  The  Captain  declared  it  was  as  "smooth 
as  a  mill-pond,"  but  a  lady  with  her  child  who 
were  both  drenched  to  the  skin  with  spray  while 

48 


AN   ALASKAN  OUTING. 

sitting  in  their  stateroom,  thought  the  mill-pond 
a  little  rough. 

As  all  things  finally  come  to  an  end,  we  ran  into 
smoother  water  up  the  coast  and  from  that  on,  the 
journey  became  one  unalloyed  pleasure.  The  trip 
between  here  and  Seattle  is  too  familiar  to  most 
of  you  to  need  any  elaboration,  so  I  shall  pass  it 
by  beyond  describing  a  picture  that  impressed  me 
greatly.  One  late  afternoon,  I  saw  the  wester- 
ing sun  pass  from  a  clouded  heaven  and  through 
a  clear  strip  of  saffron  sky,  slowly  disappear  be- 
low the  rim  of  the  ocean.  Far  away  on  the  waters 
a  solitary  sail  stood  in  the  afterglow  and  seemed 
like  a  vision  of  the  Valkyria  of  the  Norseland  with 
its  freight  of  human  souls  setting  its  prow  toward 
Valhalla. 

No  other  object  appeared  on  that  vast  expanse 
of  the  deep,  and  though  the  hour  was  lonely  and 
I  was  far  from  home,  nothing  could  quench  the 
exultation  and  freedom  of  spirit  of  that  hour. 

June  the  4th,  we  left  Seattle  by  the  Cottage 
City  outward  bound  for  Skagway;  and  here  began 
the  passage  of  those  wonderful  inland  waters 
that  could  no  more  be  faithfully  described  than 
the  changing  colors  of  a  kaleidoscope.  For  five 
days  we  steamed  ahead  through  Puget  Sound, 
Gulf  Georgia,  Seymore  Narrows,  Queen  Char- 
lotte's Sound,  Greenville  Channel,  Millbank 
Sound,  Dickson's  Entrance,  Wrangle  Narrows, 
and  Lynn  Canal,  which  by  the  way,  is  a  natural 

49 


AN    ALASKAN   OUTING. 

body  of  water  and  not  artificial  as  its  name  would 
imply.  There  are  besides  many  passages  and 
straights  that  I  cannot  recall.  Each  one  of  these 
might  stand  alone  for  its  distinctive  beauty. 

As  we  leave  Victoria,  the  waters  are  wide  and 
fringed  with  hills  that  stand  purplish  blue  in  the 
afterglow  of  sunset,  snow-ridges  rising  brokenly 
behind  them.  These  give  way  to  nearer  shores 
and  higher  mountains  densely  wooded  to  the  water's 
edge  and  we  glide  in  and  out  among  number- 
less low  green  islands,  with  here  and  there  a  light- 
house to  blazon  the  danger  at  night,  their  red 
roofs  glowing  like  embers  among  the  trees.  These, 
too,  vanish  and  we  pass  into  a  narrow  opening 
where  the  eddies  and  whirlpools  dance  as  the  tide 
rushes  through.  We  watch  the  waves  foaming 
over  the  surface  rocks  not  far  away.  This  open- 
ing is  called  Seymore  Narrows,  and  navigation 
here  is  considered  very  difficult  and  dangerous. 
Wrangle  Narrows  is  another  very  trying  passage 
to  a  pilot,  as  the  channel  has  to  be  indicated  by 
buoys  placed  along  its  entire  length.  The  steam- 
er's course  is  changed  every  four  minutes  and  a 
variation  of  but  a  few  feet  would  cause  disaster. 
They  are  seldom  attempted  at  night  and  many 
captains  wait  for  a  rising  tide.  We  saw  an  old 
wreck  at  the  entrance,  raising  its  storm-beaten 
hulk  as  a  warning  to  adventurous  or  unskillful 
captains.  So  the  wide  bodies  of  water  kept  nar- 
rowing to  smaller  ones,  in  and  out  for  days,  with 

so 


AN  ALASKAN   OUTING. 

higher  mountains  and  nearer  shores,  and  waterfalls 
plunging  from  the  heights  to  the  sea,  until  the  les- 
sening timber,  and  great  headlands  of  rock  inwhose 
deep  fissures  and  seamy  edges  the  storms  had  hung 
their  fringes  of  snow,  showed  that  we  were  get- 
ting into  the  country  where  Vulcan  forged  the 
thunder-bolts. 

All  along  the  way  from  first  to  last  we  passed 
strange  objects  of  interest.  Now  and  then  the 
straight  white  houses  of  an  Indian  Mission.  Now 
and  then  an  Indian  graveyard  close  against  the 
water,  with  weird  totem  poles  as  monuments  to 
the  dead.  Now  a  cannery,  then  a  lonely  logger's 
cabin  with  the  wooded  mountains  behind  it  throw- 
ing their  long  dense  shadows  far  out  from  the 
shore.  Sometimes  a  solitary  boat  would  push  out 
from  the  green  shade  for  a  moment,  then  into  the 
cool  shadows  disappear  again  and  all  would  be 
still  except  the  pulse  of  the  engine  which,  with 
never-ending  throbbing,  beat  the  time  away.  One 
day  as  we  steamed  for  hours  through  a  sea  of 
glass,  the  heart  full  and  the  spirit  softened  by 
these  wondrous  beauties,  what  seemed  to  be  a 
long  green  island  appeared  in  front  of  us.  As  we 
approached,  it  became  two  islands  and  in  the  space 
between,  a  great  snow  peak  shot  up  into  the  sky. 
The  hour  was  sunset  aflame  with  color,  and  look- 
ing over  the  prow  of  the  boat,  they  all  swung  with 
inverted  image  in  the  depths  below.  As  we  glided 
on  into  the  night  and  into  a  different  water-way, 

51 


AN   ALASKAN  OUTING. 

great  masses  of  ominous  clouds  gathered  across 
the  crags  that  finger-like  pierced  the  sky  and  were 
touched  here  and  there  by  the  weird  and  silver 
light  of  a  waxing  moon. 

In  between  these  passing  objects  lay  the  towns 
which  hold  commercial  intercourse  with  the  out- 
side world,  and  at  many  of  their  wharves  the  Cot- 
tage City  discharged  her  freight.  We  visited  Ket- 
chikan,  a  queer  little  mining  town  with  an  Indian 
name,  Camp  Hattie,  a  picturesque  little  place 
with  a  board  walk  leading  through  the  pines  up 
to  the  newly  opened  mine,  and  ferns  bursting  from 
every  nook  and  cranny  along  the  way,  Old  Fort 
Wrangle,  with  its  totem  poles  and  Indian  women 
sitting  in  the  sun  selling  baskets,  and  Juneau,  which 
is  beautifully  located  at  the  foot  of  precipitous 
cliffs. 

Many  of  the  houses  are  built  on  elevations  which 
have  to  be  approached  by  long  steps.  There  is 
great  rivalry  between  Juneau  and  Douglas  City 
opposite,  which  contains  the  Treadwell  mine,  the 
largest  in  the  world.  We  were  fortunate  enough 
to  be  able  to  visit  it  during  the  noon  hour  when 
the  miners  were  not  at  work.  The  Treadwell  mine 
is  as  much  like  a  Dante's  Inferno  as  anything  you 
could  imagine.  It  is  really  a  gigantic  quarry, 
commencing  at  the  top  of  the  mountain  far  above 
you  and  like  a  great  upright  funnel,  terminating  in 
a  great  hole  far  below  you.  From  the  middle  dis- 
tance, the  level  from  which  visitors  view  the  mine, 

52 


AN   ALASKAN  OUTING. 

long  flights  of  stairs  lead  down  to  the  opening 
which  is  like  a  mouth  opening  to  swallow  you  up. 
Down  these  stairs  the  miners  file  one  by  one  and 
circling  around  the  opening  disappear  down  lad- 
ders placed  within. 

The  Treadwell  mine  has  a  capacity  of  a  thou- 
sand stamps,  and  eight  hundred  and  sixty  were  in 
operation  the  day  we  visited  it.  As  thirty  stamps 
constitute  a  large  mine,  you  can  readily  judge  the 
capacity  of  this,  but  can  have  a  very  faint  idea  of 
the  noise  produced.  The  blasting  strikes  the  cliffs 
behind  Juneau,  and  is  echoed  from  wall  to  wall 
like  deafening  peals  of  thunder.  We  visited 
Tonga,  a  salmon  cannery,  built  in  the  shadow  of 
a  great  mountain.  An  Oakland  milliner  was  act- 
ing in  the  capacity  of  cook  at  $50.00  a  month, 
and  seemed  to  enjoy  the  change,  although  she  was 
the  only  woman  in  the  place.  As  we  looked 
through  the  old-fashioned  window  at  the  boarding 
house,  a  picture  was  framed  by  mountains  dark 
with  pines;  two  bright  red  boats  were  drawn 
against  a  cluster  of  Indian  huts  and  a  mountain 
torrent  rushed  swiftly  past  to  the  sea.  Beyond  it 
all,  swung  the  wide  circle  of  the  mountain-locked 
harbor  with  a  snowy  ridge  closing  the  entrance. 
It  is  a  peculiar  fact  that  this  inland  passage  is  so 
tortuous  that  whenever  you  glide  into  a  harbor  the 
mountains  swing  after  you,  or  perhaps  an  island 
looms  where  you  seemingly  passed  a  moment  be- 
fore. It  is  always  there,  this  closed  portal,  and 

S3 


AN   ALASKAN   OUTING. 

nature's  sentry  with  mysterious  fingers  unlocks  the 
gate  of  mountains,  a  low  green  island  or  towering 
crag,  and  swiftly  and  silently  it  opens  before  you 
while  he  hides  the  key  in  the  casket  of  the  deep. 
From  Wrangle  Narrows  we  suddenly  burst  into 
a  vision  of  the  Arctic,  and  from  Juneau  steamed 
for  eight  hours  through  the  Lynn  Canal  which  is 
by  far  the  grandest  part  of  the  trip,  as  it  is  the 
last  before  reaching  Skagway.  It  has  a  wild  and 
fantastic  grandeur  impossible  to  describe.  Stu- 
pendous masses  of  rock  and  earth  raise  themselves 
in  snowy  ridges,  straight  from  the  water's  edge; 
here  and  there  the  green-blue  of  a  glacier  shows  it- 
self. It  may  lie  in  a  crater-like  formation  among  the 
crags,  or,  river-like,  may  stretch  away  for  miles,  en- 
circling in  its  icy  arms  solitary  peaks  which  tower 
in  lonely  grandeur  above  its  frozen  waves.  As  it 
moves  slowly  on  to  the  sea,  there  are  constantly 
breaking  masses,  to  float  away  as  icebergs  and  men- 
ace navigation  in  the  late  summer.  I  saw  as  many 
as  ten  or  twelve  of  these  icebergs  at  one  time  lying 
off  in  a  little  cove  to  the  left  of  us. 

After  an  eight  hours'  run  from  Juneau,  or  five 
days  from  Seattle,  we  reached  Skagway,  a  busy 
little  town  situated  in  a  narrow  valley  at  the  head 
of  the  Lynn  Canal  and  completely  walled  in  by 
perpendicular  cliffs  and  mountains.  It  follows  in 
a  straggling  sort  of  way  the  winding  course  of  the 
Skagway  River  for  about  a  mile  and  a  half  up  the 
valley,  as  though  trying  to  lose  itself.  It  has  fine 

54 


AN   ALASKAN   OUTING. 

wharves  which  extend  but  about  a  mile  into  the 
water,  and  is  the  port  of  entry  for  the  Klondike. 
It  has  some  pretentious  buildings,  but  shows  the 
effect  of  the  passing  on  of  its  people,  for  the  lit- 
tle log  cabins  of  the  early  gold  hunters  stand 
empty  and  forgotten  among  the  neat  cottages  of 
the  more  permanent  settlers.  It  must  be  remem- 
bered that  from  Skagway  to  Lake  Bennett  is  the 
land  connection  between  two  great  water-ways,  one 
lying  between  Seattle  and  Skagway  and  the  other 
between  Bennett  and  the  Klondike  with  this  con- 
necting link  of  land  in  between.  In  order  to  pass 
from  one  water-way  to  the  other,  a  great  ridge 
had  to  be  crossed  by  trail;  this  ridge  was  known 
as  the  Summit,  and  the  trails  that  lead  to  it  wound 
through  two  narrow  defiles  in  the  mountains 
known  as  the  Chilkoot  and  White  Passes;  the 
former  starting  from  Dyea  and  the  latter  from 
Skagway.  The  Chilkoot  Pass  was  abandoned  in 
favor  of  White  Pass,  as  being  less  difficult  to 
accomplish  (Chilkoot  avalanche).  The  site  of 
Skagway  where  the  first  landing  was  made,  was  a 
great  forest  and  this  had  to  be  leveled  to  build 
temporary  homes  and  bridges.  Then  began  the 
march  of  the  first  thousand  men  over  the  summit, 
cutting  their  way  through  almost  unsurmountable 
difficulties.  Through  the  long  days  of  the  short 
summer  and  the  icy  snow  blasts  of  the  early  win- 
ter, the  men  toiled  and  wept,  for  it  was  no  un- 
common thing  to  see  strong  men  discouraged  and 

55 


AN   ALASKAN  OUTING. 

broken  in  spirit  by  hardship,  weeping  like  children 
along  the  line.  Nor  were  these  the  only  sufferers, 
for  many  of  their  poor  pack  animals  were  either 
killed  outright  by  falling  over  the  edge  of  the 
trail,  or  so  maimed  by  slipping  on  the  moss-cov- 
ered rocks,  that  they  had  to  be  killed  or  were  left 
to  die.  This  trail  has  become  famous  in  history  as 
the  Dead  Horse  Trail,  as  2,000  dead  horses  were 
found  on  it  between  Skagway  and  Bennett  in  the 
spring  of  1900.  The  distance  is  but  forty  miles. 
I  walked  five  miles  over  it  and  saw  bones  still 
whitening  in  the  sun.  Just  where  the  trail  begins 
the  ascent  from  Skagway,  is  a  desolate  cluster  of 
log  cabins,  which  bespeak  the  early  struggle.  All 
is  silent  except  when  the  wind  sways  the  weeds 
growing  out  of  the  crevices  in  the  roofs,  or  whistles 
mournfully  through  the  broken  windows.  It  is 
called  by  the  euphonious  name  of  Liarsville.  As 
each  jaded  pedestrian  inquired  the  distance  to  the 
summit,  he  was  told  a  different  tale;  hence,  the 
name.  I  suppose  each  one  gauged  the  distance 
from  his  individual  weariness. 

At  the  extreme  end  of  the  town,  lies  the  pathetic 
little  cemetery  of  Skagway.  It  has  one  preten- 
tious monument  among  the  few  small  headstones 
and  many  little  painted  boards  that  caution  you 
to  tread  lightly.  It  was  erected  by  subscription 
to  the  memory  of  a  Mr.  Reed,  who  headed  a  vig- 
ilance committee  to  rid  the  town  of  a  gang  of  out- 
laws, led  by  a  man  called  Soapy  Smith.  They  were 

56 


AN   ALASKAN  OUTING. 

both  killed  and  this  granite  shaft  rises  on  a  spot 
near  the  wild  Skagway  River  that  rushes  on  its 
swift  and  stormy  way.  From  a  cliff  in  the  back- 
ground, Deed's  Falls  plunge  through  a  gorge  and 
striking  the  broken  rocks  at  the  bottom,  babble 
through  the  ferns  and  roots  of  leaning  trees  away 
through  the  little  cemetery  and  past  the  sleeper, 
whose  death  justified  the  inscription,  "He  gave  his 
life  for  the  honor  of  Skagway."  Soapy  Smith  lies 
buried  in  some  obscure  corner,  few  remembering 
where  and  none  caring. 

An  Alaskan  summer  is  weird  and  unnatural,  but 
full  of  varied  enchantment.  Hours  and  hours 
go  by  and  you  wait  for  the  darkness  which  never 
falls.  You  glance  at  the  clock  which  says  ten 
o'clock  and  think  it  ought  to  be  time  to  go  to  bed. 
Out  of  the  window  it  is  broad  daylight  and  out- 
ing parties  are  just  starting  out  with  wraps  and 
luncheon,  bound  for  some  adjacent  lake;  the  chil- 
dren play  in  the  street  and  not  a  star  is  visible.  You 
begin  to  feel  that  Nature  in  this  country  has  turned 
things  topsy-turvy.  Between  eleven  and  twelve  a 
twilight  settles,  through  which  objects  are  still  dis- 
tinct, and  perhaps  one  or  two  planets  glimmer 
faintly  in  a  pale  sky.  At  half  past  twelve  you 
realize  that  it  is  lighter  than  a  moment  before,  and 
at  two  o'clock  the  morning  sun  strikes  the  moun- 
tain peaks.  I  was  in  Skagway  nearly  a  month  and 
saw  but  three  stars,  and  it  wasn't  because  I  was 
asleep,  for  I  believe  people  hibernate  there  in  the 

57 


AN   ALASKAN   OUTING. 

winter  and  stay  awake  all  summer.  Rains  fall 
frequently,  which  nobody  seems  to  mind,  and 
keep  the  country  beautifully  green  with  moss  and 
a  tender  little  weed,  with  green  needles  growing 
along  a  stem,  called  ice-plant.  This  grows  abun- 
dantly in  the  streets  and  about  the  old  stumps  that 
stand  everywhere  as  though  protesting  against  the 
destruction  of  the  forest. 

The  Alaskan  tree  is  a  wonder  to  behold,  for  it 
spreads  its  roots  spider-like  on  the  tops  of  the 
rocks,  and  grows  straight  and  strong  with  appar- 
ently not  a  handful  of  soil.  Ferns  grow  in  every  va- 
cant place  and  wild  roses,  dogwood,  long  stemmed 
violets,  like  our  English  violets,  spring  from 
every  moist  spot  and  fill  the  air  with  fragrance. 
As  the  summer  advances,  all  Skagwaygoes  berrying, 
for  the  most  delicious  huckleberries,  raspberries, 
currants  and  cranberries  grow  among  the  rocks 
and  on  every  mountain  side.  All  the  jams  and 
jellies  in  Alaska  are  made  from  this  wild  fruit. 
People  are  settling  down  to  cultivate  gardens,  and 
the  vegetables  that  mature  during  the  short  sum- 
mer are  unsurpassed.  The  singing  bird  is  rather 
rare  in  Alaska,  but  the  country  is  filled  with  ravens, 
whose  harsh  cry  floats  down  from  the  peaks  against 
whose  whiteness  their  black  forms  drift  to  and  fro. 
In  one  respect  Alaska  is  like  Ireland,  for  it  has 
no  snakes,  and  dangerous  crawling  insects  are  also 
unknown,  but  the  mosquito  is  a  mammoth  that 
makes  up  for  other  deficiencies. 

58 


AN  ALASKAN   OUTING. 

The  omnipresent  tramp  who  flourishes  else- 
where is  not  found  so  far  north.  In  the  first  place, 
he  cannot  walk  there;  and  once  there,  he  cannot 
get  out  over  the  endless  mountains. 

The  amusements  of  the  people  of  Skagway  are 
principally  outings  to  places  of  interest;  many  visit 
the  adjacent  glaciers,  notably  Davidson's  and  Law- 
ton's,  but  as  these  are  always  difficult  and  danger- 
ous to  reach,  I  did  not  attempt  the  trip,  but  rather 
chose  two  midnight  excursions  which  were  certainly 
unusual.  On  one  of  these,  four  of  us  with  three 
children  accompanied  by  a  solitary  dog  for  pro- 
tection, started  with  short  skirts,  walking-sticks  and 
luncheon,  at  half  past  nine  in  the  so-called  even- 
ing for  a  lake  two  or  three  miles  away.  A  straight 
climb  of  eight  hundred  or  a  thousand  feet  over  a 
zigzag  trail,  and  now  and  then  a  trembling  cor- 
duroy bridge  brought  us  at  midnight  to  a  beau- 
tifully green  artificial  lake  at  the  top  of  the  per- 
pendicular bluff  flanking  Skagway.  The  mountain 
rose  straight  and  dark  with  pines  behind  it,  while 
still  beyond,  here  and  there  sharp  peaks  shrouded 
in  snow,  looked  over  their  great  shoulders  on  to  the 
lake  below.  A  roaring  waterfall  rushed  from  the 
dense  woods  at  the  back  and  dropped  to  the  lake 
which  overflowed  on  the  opposite  side  and  through 
straight  walls  of  rock,  rushed  like  some  mad  thing 
and  found  rest  in  the  placid  waters  of  the  Lynn 
Canal.  The  hush  of  that  mysterious  twilight  was 
about  us.  Through  the  pines  in  the  foreground 

59 


AN   ALASKAN  OUTING. 

we  could  descry  Skagway,  lying  far  below,  asleep, 
with  here  and  there  a  light  like  a  fallen  star;  while 
across  Lynn  Canal,  the  raven  with  discordant  cry 
and  outspread  wings,  drifted  across  the  blue- 
green  wall  of  a  glacier;  an  Alaskan  Matterhorn 
pierced  the  mists  that  wreathed  its  spire  and  the 
colossal  figure  of  Face  Mountain  from  its  coverlet 
of  snow  and  earth  gazed  with  sightless  eyes  into 
the  solitude  of  the  upper  air.  As  we  watched,  a 
flush  passed  over  the  great  snowy  head  of  the 
polar  bear,  the  leaves  trembled  in  the  woods — 
twilight  had  stolen  away  and  the  dawn  had  come 
without  a  night.  I  shall  never  forget  the  weird 
sublimity  of  that  hour.  By  seven  o'clock  our  camp 
fire  was  out  and  we  were  on  the  trail  through  the 
forest  to  the  lake  which  was  our  objective  point.  I 
could  write  on  and  on  of  these  scenes,  but  I  know 
you  must  be  getting  weary. 

What  impresses  one  in  Alaska  is  its  vastness  and 
solitude  and  the  great  possibilities  of  the  unex- 
plored country.  The  Indian  as  I  found  him  had 
little  of  the  picturesque,  that  has  passed  away  with 
the  advent  of  the  Mission  and  civilization.  Only 
at  the  barbaric  feast  called  the  Potlatch,  do  Natives 
appear  in  all  their  old-time  glory.  They  wear 
their  most  costly  and  gorgeous  trappings  at  this 
feast,  and  the  dance  consists  of  a  frenzy  of  gestures 
and  wild  evolutions  accompanied  by  hoarse  cries, 
which  cease  only  when  exhausted.  The  Potlatch 
has  a  special  significance  and  means  the  giving 

60 


AN   ALASKAN   OUTING. 

away  of  one's  goods;  each  one  tries  to  outdo  his 
brother  in  this  respect,  and  the  old  chief  is  ofttimes 
nearly  stripped  of  his  earthly  possessions  when  the 
Potlatch  is  over.  The  spirit  engendered  is  sug- 
gestive of  self-sacrifice  and  good-will.  This  bar- 
baric feast  is  fast  passing  away,  and  in  time  will  be 
but  a  myth.  Basket  weaving,  and  carving,  are  of 
course  the  chief  occupation  of  the  Indians,  and  the 
curio  shops  are  filled  with  the  handiwork  of  these 
interesting  people.  Skagway  is  a  fine  place  to  pick 
up  old  coppers  and  brasses  belonging  to  the  early 
Russian  settlers.  The  day  before  departing  for 
home  we  took  a  trip  over  the  summit  of  the  White 
Pass  to  Lake  Bennett  by  way  of  the  W.  P.  &  Y. 
railroad,  which  has  superseded  the  old  trail  and 
wagon  road.  It  is  a  wonderful  road,  built  and 
operated  by  an  English  syndicate,  and  must  have 
been  blasted  out  of  solid  rock  most  of  the  way. 
It  is  a  bewildering  trip  of  curve  and  chasm,  always 
up,  up,  with  the  scent  of  the  wild  roses  and  unseen 
violets  at  your  feet  mingling  with  the  breath  of 
the  glacier,  until  the  snow  begins  to  lie  below  you, 
and  you  are  on  a  level  with  many  of  the  mountain 
crests.  The  wild  Skagway  River  winds  like  a  faint 
thread  far  below  to  the  Lynn  Canal,  which  glitters 
between  the  ridges  miles  away. 

At  the  foot  of  the  pass  a  few  deserted  cabins 
stand,  with  stretches  of  ruined  corduroy.  A  great 
silence  broods  over  the  spot;  the  struggles,  disap- 
pointments and  successes  of  those  who  slept  beneath 

61 


AN   ALASKAN   OUTING. 

these  roofs  and  dreamed  of  home,  in  the  early 
morning,  entering  the  narrow  defile  of  the  ascent, 
many  of  them  never  to  emerge  from  it,  are  sung 
by  the  wild  river  as  it  speeds  away  to  the  sea. 

Once  over  the  summit  and  we  are  soon  at  Lake 
Bennett.  The  magician's  wand  has  surely  been 
employed  here,  for  in  1900,  ten  thousand  people 
lived  by  its  cheerless  wind-swept  shores.  It  was 
called  the  city  of  tents ;  to-day  not  more  than  twen- 
ty-five constitute  its  inhabitants.  It  is  simply  an  eat- 
ing station  on  the  White  Pass  road.  The  city  has 
passed  on. 

We  were  back  in  Skagway  in  a  few  hours,  and 
the  following  day  embarked  on  the  Dolphin  for 
home,  which  was  sighted  again  after  an  absence  of 
nearly  seven  weeks.  Now,  often  as  I  hear  the 
tramp  of  passing  feet,  and  realize  the  haste  and 
presure  of  a  great  city,  I  long  again  for  the  peace 
and  solitude  of  the  weird  north  country.  The 
west  wind  blows  in  at  my  window,  bringing  in  a 
dream  the  balm  and  spices  of  the  Orient  with  the 
voices  of  its  multitudes,  but  no  charm  lies  there. 
Rather  the  fierce  "taku"  as  it  sweeps  through  the 
mountain  passes  singing  the  wild  song  of  the  crags 
and  waterfalls,  and  breathing  the  odor  of  unseen 
violets  through  the  mysterious  twilight  of  an 
Alaskan  summer  when  the  dawn  comes  without  a 
night. 


62 


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